


A Comic Book

by KorrohShipper



Series: S. Grant Wilson [3]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Artist!Steve, Canon Compliant, Day 2, Domesticity, F/M, Fluff, Married!Steggy, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Steggy - Freeform, Steggy Week 2020, Steggy baby, Time Travel, comic books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25403194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KorrohShipper/pseuds/KorrohShipper
Summary: “A comic book?”
Relationships: Peggy Carter & Steve Rogers & Howard Stark, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Series: S. Grant Wilson [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867306
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	A Comic Book

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 (Monday): Tropes, Clichés, & Symbols

"I hate you."

Steve groaned, buried his hands inside his palm and crumpled yet another blank plate already scratched and damaged by the amount of eraser marks. With an unfortunate practiced ease, his head still bowed down, he tossed the paper ball into the bin to join other balled-up scrapped ideas in a similar fate.

Despite not really needing to work, what with Peggy's position as director providing more than a healthy income for their little household of three, Steve was akin to a ball of bursting energy—if not directed at anything, he might combust upon himself.

So, he got himself a job at a mid-sized publishing house in Brooklyn. Or, rather, _S. Grant Wilson_ forgone the freelancing jobs and went on something more permanent.

Initially the head for the concept and art of the editorial cartoon for the publishing house's weekly newspaper division, he had caught the eye of its comic book sister publishing company's Ace Magazines. Looking to bump up the sales of their now financially disappointing comic division, he had been loaned to the division and was tasked to create a comic idea to pitch to the board.

So, there he was, in the basement which served as both his art studio and office, willing his mind to welcome any potential promising idea even it'd hit him in the head—

"You know, my darling, if all you need is a knock on your head, I'd happily oblige you." Said a familiar, English drawl and he couldn't help but let the tired, weary frustration melt away, twisting so that he'd see her, at the base of the stairs of the basement, an amused look on her face. "All you need is ask."

"When did you get home?" he asked, taking her into his arms and sinking into an embrace. He relished the warmth of it, the feel of her arms around him, the safety and feeling of home she'd perpetually exude. She's home. 

It was not lost on him that she is still wearing her ensemble from earlier—she must have just arrived. 

"Not very long." She admitted before dropping her gaze to the crib set up near his desk to keep a better watch on Jamie, he often brought Jamie down with him, only with the exception of when he'd use his acrylics. "Oh, my golden child," she croons at the gummy smile Jamie had given her. 

As far as his six months of life goes, James Phillip Wilson—privately, he and his wife (his wife, he thinks giddily) conspires to call him Rogers—is a mama's boy, lighting up the brightest whenever Peggy is in the room. "Of course he'd like me better," she’d say wryly, "I'm his mother and, as consequence of a pleasant if not unfortunate set of breasts, his meal ticket." She quips with that quintessential British humor that he's found himself shaking his head to, a growing smile on his face every time.

Jamie—or James, as Peggy prefers—was now collected in his mother's arms, showing a bright demeanor as he was bounced in her arms. "My darling, golden boy, how are you? Did you and your daddy have fun?"

Steve chuckled before snaking his arms around her waist, content to have her hold him as he held her. "Oh, he had fun watching all of Daddy's ideas go to the waste can."

"Must have been a lot of ideas." He grinned sheepishly at the now overflowing waste bin, with paper balls already littered around the base of it. "I thought the deadline was near."

"Oh, it is." He says mock gravely, not able to bring himself to care as much. Lately, they've been trying to enforce a rule: no shop talk after coming home. "It's just I've hit a dry spell for ideas and my creative juices didn’t get the memo."

There's no need to bring home the office, even for the one who's working from home.

"Anyways," he segued, "how's your day?" because really, anything to get his mind off of the unnervingly bare plates would have him screaming for the hills. 

"Actually, comparatively easier than yours, love." She eases her way out of his arms, Jamie still in hers as they made their way upstairs. "With Chet managing to get congressional approval for the raid of a Red Room academy, we've been busying ourselves on planning for the mission, assigning the right men for the job."

"You going?"

"Oh, I think not. Chet's already running himself thin between New York and Washington—which reminds me, there's a small issue that I need to discuss with you."

Steve blinked. "Oh. Is it bad?"

With a free hand, she waved his concerns off. "Oh, hardly life threatening, my darling. Always so dramatic," she rolls her eyes, but he spots her, nonetheless as she took her spot at the dining table, giving him a look that had his insides either melting into a goopy puddle or heart doing gymnastics.

Steve went over to the stove to heat up the steaks. Somewhere along the line, to prevent ruining his clothes, had worn an apron, reaching over and attending to their food with a calming familiarity and a sense of completeness—Tony would tease him endlessly, calling a house husband because of course Captain America is the one to stay behind while his wife works.

"Hey, Pegs, could you hand me some plates?" he called out, satisfied as the steak became much more tender and fragrant as it continued to sear on butter and some rosemary and thinly chopped up clove of garlic had sent a warmly filling scent that had the entire kitchen smelling heavenly that he's half-tempted to say this is what he imagines a Gordon Ramsay restaurant to smell like—but of course, the tables have turned on him, now capable of relating to popular culture only to find that the people who did understand it are in the future.

"Hold on," replied Peggy, letting down the porcelain china on the counter space beside him. She left, briefly, for the stairs with a bottle of formula in hand. He was left alone with the sound of the meat sizzling in the pan until he heard soft, gentle humming from above and settled, closing eyes, letting the soft lullaby wash down on him, too.

When Peggy came back downstairs, Jamie was out like a light and he had set the table. "You wanted to talk about something, yeah?"

"Oh, yes, I've been meaning to talk to you about Chet."

Immediately, his eyebrows rose. "Is he okay?" he asked, picturing his former CO and a swell of gratitude blossomed in him. Despite the gruff exterior, Chet Phillips is one of the few men he'd trust his life with. That and he's a real soft marshmallow when Peggy brought Jamie over at SHIELD to meet his namesake.

"Actually, he's thinking about retiring." That had caught him off guard. He remembered that time when he and Nat went off trying to uproot Hydra from SHIELD, when he learned that he died, he felt as if a punch had knocked all air from his chest.

As much as he thought of the past in the future, now that he's back, he couldn't help but think that time's moving a lot faster.

"What about congress? I don't think they'd like Howard much. I mean, does Daniel want the position?" Steve, while he thinks of the world of Howard, knew that the congress had no love lost for the billionaire. Daniel, however, was perfect on paper—a war veteran and the division head, only second to Peggy's office, would have been the perfect candidate.

"But he's all lined up for the promotion at the FBI." Steve _tsked_ out his disappointment. Despite his and Peggy's relationship, Steve found out, after a recon mission with Daniel, that he's a level and solid guy. Daniel is one of the few guys at SHIELD who he knew would never turn on its ideals and foundation, a man he could trust.

So, when he was approached by the current and incumbent regional head of the FBI that he was retiring from the position to run for national office, Daniel had to accept. While he was happy for the man and the doors it opened for SHIELD having an ally in another agency, it would be a dynamic that SHIELD would never really have again. 

"You're up for it, I guess?" Peggy gave him a nod. "So does that mean we'll have to relocate to Washington?"

"I'm afraid so. While Howard can fly over, he'll be overseeing here at the New York base."

"Do you have any idea when?"

"Sometime between the next three months to two years. Chet wants to make sure that everything is in top order before leaving."

"Well, he deserves his break, that's for sure."

Then, a smile broke on Peggy's face, one mischievous and conspiratorial. "I suppose that is true."

"Huh," he leaned in closer, intrigued, "and why is that?"

"Sergeant Barnes would say that we've given him more gray hair than his 68 years of life back when the war was still on."

Steve broke into fits of chuckles. "I remember him taking me aside, telling me that he didn't mind what I did in my private time—" he wheezed out in controlled laughter, careful as to not wake up the baby, "—but that in briefings and meetings, he'd appreciate it if I stopped making _googly_ eyes at you."

Then, Peggy gave him a fond if not exasperated look. "Oh, my darling, but you weren't very discrete back then." And he thinks of their history together, bound by New York. The very beginnings of their story began here and at the moment, he found that he’s not that ready to let go. Not just yet. 

And he thinks, in the small moment that he realizes he's going to leave, he's going to miss it. But in the face of even the most uncertain future, with Peggy by his side, he could do anything. 

Then, an idea popped into his mind. He stood up, letting the chair scrape against the floor. His steak was not finished, only about half was eaten when he took her by the arm, earning an indignant response of, "Steve!" but still laughed as he led towards the living room.

With a coy smile, he walked over to the radio and toggled on the button roaring the radio to life. He found a channel that played, soft, slow jazz music and he held out his hand. "Dance with me?"

"Oh, you oaf." She says but she took his hand either way. He bent down his head when they found a steady rhythm and gave her a kiss that lingered just on her lips, he didn't push deeper. When they broke apart, despite pleased, she gave him a quizzical look, "What's that for?"

"We started our life here," and they did—he knocked on her door and he was ready to be aimed at with a gun but instead, they danced. "And now that I know one day we'll have to leave, I want us to make memories."

Peggy rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't give me that, futureman," she says, taking a hand and cupping his cheek. "Don't tell me you didn't know." His silence, however, answered for him. " _Oh_ , you didn't."

"In the future, I thought someone else was going to be your husband, that I made my bed when I crashed the bomber—finding out who you married was like adding salt to a wound. I understood you moved on and knowing you were happy and you lived a full life helped, but I wasn't ready for that, knowing would make it real and I wasn't ready for that."

"And then. . ." he trailed off, a growing smile on his face.

" _And then_?"

"When I came back, I had every intention of returning. Going back to the past was a way of saying the goodbyes I didn't get a chance to say. And when I showed up at your door, I didn't know. Not really anything."

And Peggy gave him that soft look, the same one she had spied on him back when he threw himself over the dummy grenade. "You didn't know, my darling."

"So, I was faced with the possibility of having the allied's most clever spy hunt me down until the ends of this earth but when you took me in—" and then, his voice grew heavy with emotion, "— _when we danced that night,_ I didn't know anything. I can't say how the days will unfold, or what our future holds. All I knew was that I want you in it, every hour, every minute. And that whatever time I’ll have with you, whatever it’ll throw at me, well I’ll cherish it all the same."

And everything was going so well, him leaning towards her with a renewed energy that passion that usually led them to the bedroom but the music had faded out and a different program broke in. 

Peggy groaned, it was a groan of frustration and irritation and annoyance and she breathed in deeply, counting to ten. "Why does this keep happening to me?" she muttered, hands on her hips, asking for respite or reason.

Steve, on the other hand, was perplexed. What was Roxxon Energy, a defunct corporation in the future taken over by Hammer Industries, doing sponsoring a radio drama about him.

The upbeat, militaristic, almost propaganda-feel drum intro faded when the radio announcer began: " _And now it's time for the_ **_Captain America Adventure Program_ ** _, brought to you by Roxxon motor oil. Tonight's thrilling tale brings us deep into the heart of the Ardennes Forest, where Hitler's Nazi guard have ambushed the 107th Infantry, and taken Betty Carver, the battalion's beautiful triage nurse, as their hostage_."

Soon enough, the radio announcer's voice faded and the actual program started with the nurse, Betty Carver's breathy, mournful lines of, " _If only Captain America were here to rescue me_!"

It took all of his composure to ask, calmly at his wife, "What is this?"

"That," she stomps off angrily to the radio and snips it off, "my dear, is _rubbish_."

"Yes," he agreed. It is trash, the kind of trash that deserves to be locked in a box and buried deep into the ground so that it is never seen or heard from again. But it asked a ringing question: "Why does it exist?"

He didn't hear it in its entirety and he was sure it's as horrible as it started out. 

"You're the world's photographed and recognizable soldier, love, you're like Father Christmas—slap you on a tin can of biscuits and you'll sell like hotcakes."

"But it's bad!" he protested indignantly. "I mean, I know they can't disclose any sensitive information, but Betty Carver? It's like they're not even trying to hide that it's you! Anyone with half a mind would remember that old MGM war tape they shot in Europe."

The MGM tape was (in)famous in SHIELD, one is that it openly told of the worst kept secret of its director. But back in the war, there were meetings about that tape— _"That's my best spy, Senator, that you're exposing and putting on the line. And Mr. Meyer, with all due respect, I don't care if you're trying to make the narrative on Roger's love life to make a pretty penny: you will not give her fucking name."_ —it was truly a win alone, the uphill battle courtesy of the film rights MGM had due to their financial backing of Project Rebirth.

In the end, MGM stated that the dame on his compass was a codebreaker called Peggy.

He remembered that the press had a field day but they had a war to win. Every single day brought a new headline, the compass was soon forgotten. 

But the show?

“But it’s not even right!” he narrowed his eyes at the radio. “And what kind of message is that supposed to show little girls? That when there’s trouble, they need to get themselves a man to get them out of it?” and he thinks of his mother, a pregnant widow to one of America’s brave boys who died during the Great War. She had a sickly child, barely struggling to put food in her stomach, let alone a roof over her head but never in his life did he see her as a damsel in distress, waiting for a man to rescue her. 

“And. . .that’s not right.” He finishes softly because he glances a look at Peggy, whose gaze softened at his impassioned rant. 

“It’s annoying, but it’s alright. And frankly, it’s a children’s program. I know my own worth, my darling, and while it certainly helps that you know, too, what this program says is irrelevant.”

He looks in her eyes tentatively. “If someone started a radio program about me, saying I only fought to kill, if I was secretly Hydra, would you have let it?"

“Not that’s absurd. Of course not.” And gave her hand a gentle squeeze. 

“In the future, there’s a man who came to me. He told me he’s a great fan of mine, but it wasn’t because of anything I did in the war, it’s because the woman he believed in told my story.” He laughed breathlessly, trying to put into words what he felt that day when Phil Coulson told him of SHIELD’s story, “He said that whoever started the agency really wanted it to spell out SHIELD. Peggy, from the moment I was put in the training program, you saw me, not as a soldier or a number in the figure— _you saw me._ ” 

At the moment, he thought of it all, what it was like to be seen not as a liability, or as with immediate pity, but as a person. A living, breathing being with a beating heart, a mind of his own. And Peggy saw that from day one. 

“You saw me for who I am, not who I stood for, and you told them my story, not the ones they wanted to tell.” So, with a chance glance at the radio, he had an idea. He finally have an idea. “And, Peggy?”

“My darling?”

“I want to tell your story.” And he says it with a hope that, when Jamie is older, he’d tell it to his son. Or maybe, if it happens and they grow their family, he’ll tell it to them, too. 

But most importantly, he also wants to tell a message. A message to all the little girls out there. “Peggy, I have an idea!” he raced downstairs to the basement and ran as fast as he could. Basically, he all but launched himself to that chair and scrambled to get his pencil. 

“Steve, what are you doing?” she laughed, following him down albeit at a more collected pace. 

“I’m going to tell your story,” he says as he starts with the logo. It’s simple, but elegant and firm, something befitting an agent. “Don’t worry, nothing sensitive here, I just. . .I have an idea.”

He draws the silhouette of the character. She’s by the edge of a brick wall. She’s dressed simply—a clean white blouse partnered with a rich, navy blue blazer. She had a fedora, balanced just at the crown of her hair, masking the curls of that framed her head. 

For identification’s sake, he made her blonde, and her eyes blue. But the streak of red on her lips remained the same. 

The woman is standing by the edge of the brick wall and she had a Browning P-35 to show that’s not messing around. She looks like she’s ready to bust anyone’s chops.

He finishes the cover with its title:

> **Agent 13** **  
> ** **Defender of Freedom**

“Alright,” he said at Peggy’s unreadable face. “Just hear me out. Meet Agent 13,” she spies on the illustration and he feels a surge of nervousness and pride over his quick work. “She works for an international intelligence agency called the Strategic Intelligence Logistics Operation, or SILO, for short.”

“A comic book?”

He pulled up another clean piece of paper and started writing down some ideas. “I’m thinking, for the first volumes, I’d keep her name a secret. To show that she’s more than her gender—and the reason for her make-up, well, women shouldn’t have to hide their femininity to get recognized in the workplace, for their work to get credited.”

He draws out a new character, one that has no striking resemblance to his famous alter ego. This one is thinly, gangly and bony. He gives him a mop of brown hair and brown eyes, like those little baby seals. Then he makes him small. 

“This one is called Joseph Stephens,” Peggy gave a dry laugh but he continued sketching. “He’s a typist for the army when they find a Nazi prototype for an iron suit. In the beginning, no one sees him but Agent 13 does, and when he can’t stand up for himself, Agent 13 will always be there to look out for him.” He notes to the side that Joseph Stephens is a great artist, has a sketchbook’s pages filled to the brim with doodles and other quick sketches. 

Then, another idea popped into his mind and he started two identical faces, but one is a man and one is a woman. They both have dark bags under their eyes, but they held a brilliant, nearly manic gleam—”Oh, Lord!” Peggy laughs out. “Have you turned Howard into a woman?”

“Met Harriet and Harold Strokes, twin engineers who have a penchant for inventing all sorts of gadgets for Agent 13.” At the moment, he thought Shuri and Howard and wondered, if the two had met, what a world it would have been. 

“Okay, ready for it?” he scribbles down lines upon lines, paragraphs upon paragraphs of storylines and little subplots for the comic. 

“Imagine this, Peg,” he took the paper and held it out for her to read. “In one of her stories, there’s a flashback from the war, there’s a raid and in the battle, she’s fighting for her life only to realize that her enemy is doing the same. When the morning breaks, she realizes that some of the soldiers were children. One was dying, but she held him, in her arms, speaking to him, soothing him. She buries him and marks his grave—Agent 13 is compassionate.”

Then he points out a new paragraph as she flipped over to the second page. “Then, think of this, in the army, everyone thought of soldiers and agents as just that. Units in the war. It shows that Agent 13 is human, and if you’d skip to the last paragraph there,” he rambles, eyes wide in an intoxicated inspiration of the idea, “Agent 13 is driven, that when she makes a promise, she will move heaven and earth to make good on her word.”

When Peggy flips to the last page of his proposed comic, he softened at least. “This one is the most important, I think. There’s a situation, one where she has to choose. She thinks she chose wrongly and that is the most important part of the story. She’s human, imperfect and it’s okay to make mistakes and more importantly,” she gazes down at him, eyes watery, “it’s okay to cry it out.”

And he thinks of the comic, of what it meant, the story it will tell. He thinks of the past that is now his future and the future that is now his past. He thinks of Peggy, the most wonderful woman, dame he's ever met and he thinks of the comic book because this is it. Their lives, and as silly as it is to symbolize it in a comic book, in an idea of colors and illustrations, he couldn't but think it fitting. 

After all, a life like Peggy's is something much more colorful than any movie or show or book. And really, for him, he's just happy that gets to see it unfold before his eyes.

Peggy hands the paper back to her husband and he looks up, an expectant look on his face, a look that she knew if she said she didn’t like it, that she could never allow it to see the light of day, he’d drop it in an instant. 

“My darling.” She says, grabbing a stray pencil and writes down another point. “If your Agent 13 isn't British, I promise you, there will be consequences.”

* * *

They finish at 4 AM. 

The meeting with his editors went exactly as he expected. They weren't entirely enthusiastic, but to revive their division, they had been willing to take a bet on it—and and a draft made its way to the managing editor's daughter and demanded her father for the next volume because she needs to know what Agent 13 will do to escape the evil clutches of the post-war deep science organization, Minotaur.

When Steve and Peggy and their young son moved all the way to DC the next year, Steve continued to work on the comic as the publishing company ordered more issues, what with Agent 13 being a hit with the kids and a resounding success—Howard briefly and jokingly bemoaned them on becoming a woman in the comics in the form of Harriet. "Harold?" he parroted, "What the hell kind of name is _Harold_? It's like a discount version of my name, Howard!"

It was also, in the following year, that due to the great demand and success that a radio station approached their publishing house to ask if they would be willing to sell the rights so that it could produce a radio drama. 

Immediately, their once-hated appliance which had been cursing them with the horrible radio program without fail, seemed to broadcast it less. Howard, in a fit of celebration, sent over an insider report from his analysts that stated Roxxon would soon have to cut down its budget for the show and eventually stop funding it as listeners plummeted. 

And finally, when the Captain America Adventure Program announced its cancellation, to celebrate their victory, had attempted one screening of its program along with Jamie, now rambunctious three year old and a big brother to their infant daughter, Sarah Elizabeth. 

When the program finished, Jamie stuck out his tongue and his hands on his hips that screams with all entirety Peggy, with all the sass Steve thinks a toddler could muster, “Good riddance!”

At that, he and Peggy couldn’t help but laugh. 

_Good riddance indeed._


End file.
